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Tuesday, March 30, 2010

My Husband and I text each other all the time. Mostly innocuous fare: "I love you. How was the show? I'm on my way home, do you need anything?" I was completely unprepared for, "Um . . . Baby . . . Why is there a condom on my kitchen table?" To be fair, my Husband was probably equally unprepared to find a prophylactic by his breakfast bowl, and my reply, "I love schwag" didn't really clear things up.

The night before, I had done a benefit comedy show, "Avoid the Clap - Jimmy Dugan" sponsored by Condom Cents. The title was taken from an obscure but funny line said by Tom Hanks in the film "A League of Their Own." The venue, a cute and cozy room at the back of O'Hanlon's Bar, featured comfy couches and low tables each sporting neatly packaged individual condoms. Woo hoo! At other shows I've been given tee shirts, pens, mugs, and hats, but this was my first comedy condom.

The next day before leaving the house to run errands, I cleared out my handbag of all the stuff I didn't need, leaving the condom on the table.

Unchecked, my kitchen table has the ability to morph into an open air junk drawer. Mail, newspapers, magazines, house keys, pens, business cards, notes, loose change, receipts, computer equipment. We put something down for just a minute and weeks go by. It's the Table of Convenience & Indecision. It's a convenient place to put stuff we want but we’re just not sure what to do with. Sometimes stuff migrates from the kitchen table to the chairs and then back to the table, with a possible stop on the living room couch.

This particular morning, the table was relatively clear and so the condom stood out. If my Husband were a jealous man this would have been a dangerous moment. A random condom raises eyebrows. Laying there with no explanation, any man would wonder: "Why is this here? Where is my wife? Who do I have to kill?"

Call me sexist, but I just don't think women make those kinds of mistakes. You find out a woman has cheated on her husband, when she's sitting in the nursing home, turns to husband Harry and says, "Jack, is that you?"

In retrospect, what I feel bad about is missing a chance to be romantic. I could have left a cute note with the condom saying, "Hey Baby, save room for dessert."

Monday, March 22, 2010

I read an article in The Wall Street Journal recently about First Sergeant Gunner, a Marine dog serving in Afghanistan and suffering from Canine Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The poor pooch has been unfit for duty, unable to sniff out explosives, and reacting nervously to gunfire. The Marines haven't given Gunner the Donald Trump treatment, trying instead to rehab him. I find it fascinating that: "The Marine Corps gives each dog a military rank, one notch above his handler's, to reinforce the idea that the dogs deserve respect." After reading this, I looked over at my Dog and he looked at me as if to say, "I told you so."

This explains a lot. Cocker Spaniels seem to have a regal bearing. I realize now I may have been confusing regal with commanding. By any measure, my Little Furry Guy's in charge. In me, my Husband and my Parents he has four very well trained humans at his beck and call, not to mention an extended staff of groomers, veterinarians, and well wishers. I guess Rolie's entourage is really Rolie's Army.

Which leads me to wonder what branch of service he'd be in. Like a cat he hates water so the Navy is out. Much as it pains me to say, he doesn't have the heart of a Marine. Semper Woof? Not likely.

Army? Well, Army of One would be a good fit. We've toyed with the idea of getting a second dog, but we're pretty sure Rolie was meant to be an only. Whenever we take him to Doggie Day Care, he looks at the other dogs as if they're beneath him. He manages a mingled look of contempt and disdain that would make Judge Judy proud.

If a morning constitutional counts, then Rolie does get quite a bit done before 9:00 a.m. than most people do all day but, he's really not a "Be all that you can be" kinda dog. That slogan however, is more enticing than the current and over simplified "Go Army." One wonders what inspired The Army to trade slogans with The Greyhound Bus Company. Shouldn’t the whole slogan be “Go Army and leave the fighting to us!”?

The unofficial motto of The Air Force is "Uno Ab Oto" (One Over All), and that pretty much describes my Little Old Man. While the Air Force is the youngest branch of service, it enjoys the biggest budget, the best food, and the nicest bases. That's got Rolie written all over it. He's a big part of my budget, we buy him the best food and he's got a great home. As far as rank goes, General Roland T. Nubbins has a nice ring to it.

At present, The General is on a diet. Cocker Spaniels are prone to weight problems and Rolie has gotten a little polie. We've cut back on the biscuits and upped his walks, which has made the General a little grumpy, a side effect of post traumatic snack disorder. He looks longingly at his treat box and then accusingly at me. "Stop complaining," I say. "It's for your own good. At least you're not dieting in a war zone . . . Sir.”

Sunday, March 14, 2010

New York State Governor David Paterson is messing it up for blind people everywhere. Someday a really good candidate, who happens to be blind, is going to run for governor and everybody's gonna say, “Hell no! Remember the last one!” The scandals are developing daily and the calls for his resignation are swelling to an operatic crescendo, but Paterson will probably knuckle down and stay in office until he runs out of business cards.

Accused, among other things, of abusing the power of his office, the problem is that Paterson probably never planned to be governor. He was sitting in his office minding his business when he got the call about now former Governor Eliot Spitzer:

"He did what?... I'm what? ... Oh crap! I'm gonna need a new suit."

Spitzer, you'll recall, resigned in the wake of a prostitution scandal. Ironically, Kristin Davis, The Manhattan Madame from whom "Client Number 9" procured the punani, is now running for governor. Only in New York, my friends. I think we should elect her. She's already been to jail, so the suspense is over. It's worth noting that Mr. Spitzer has done no jail time. Perhaps The Powers That Be have assumed that public humiliation is enough. It's not, but at least he had the decency to resign. South Carolina’s Governor Mark Sanford has not. But I digress. Currently New York enjoys a dysfunctional state legislature, a former congressman who admitted to groping and tickling staff members, a senior legislator who writes tax law, but doesn't follow it, and now an unpopular governor who’s days are numbered. Chicago will be calling soon to concede its corruption crown.

There was a time, not long ago, when New Yorkers sat in judgment, openly mocking New Jersey’s political problems. Now, if Jersey plays its cards right, it could invade and take over New York. They’ve already got a toe hold in Staten Island.

New York would be a plum prize but for its massive money problems. As of late, the Governor’s been anxious to put aside all of his headline grabbing gaffs so he can get to work balancing the budget. I guess there’s nothing like the threat of losing your job, to inspire you to actually do it.You know it's bad when everybody's ganging up on the blind guy. With staffers deserting in droves, Paterson should get himself a dog, a bit of positive political theater. It's hard to be mad at a guy with a seeing eye wing man. One look at a cute pup wagging his tail, noshing on a chew toy and you might forget to ask if said toy was purchased with public funds or if it's being included in the next round of budget cuts.

The scuttlebutt is that Paterson will probably resign before I get this blog posted. (Buffering, buffering, buffering.) But wishing doesn't make it so. It might be a good idea if we all familiarize ourselves with New York's gubernatorial line of succession. At the rate we're losing leaders, the head of the Department of Sanitation should expect a phone call: